I lost 24 pounds. What a weird turn of phrase that is – ‘lost’ – as if I’d somehow accidentally misplaced it and might one day be pleasantly surprised to find a greasy bucket of abdominal fat abandoned behind the laundry room door!
Now, if there is anything more boring than listening to someone talk about his diet, which I seriously doubt, I don’t want to hear about it and neither do you. My 'lard rendering plan', as I dubbed it, consisted of a hell of a lot of work and not so much restraint, as a new-found selectivity at the table, eschewing what Michael Pollan calls ‘foodlike substances’ for real food.
I didn’t do it alone. I enlisted a personal fitness trainer who saw to it that I put in the miles morning and night. And what she lacks in credentials, she more than makes up in enthusiasm. Best of all, she works for kibble and an occasional scratch behind her floppy ears. Thank you, Ginny. You’re the best!
I have no idea how many miles the two of us walked and who cares? The proof of the pudding is that I no longer look like one.
So,
you’re probably thinking: okay, big deal! You lost some weight. Lots
of people lose lots of weight. Some of them do it lots of times.
Indeed.
What intrigues me is why it happened now, not last year or the year before that. All I know is that ‘the head bone’s connected to the neck bone...' It’s a mind-body thing. Trust me on this.
Former Alberta Premier Ralph Klein once famously quipped that “Edmonton isn’t the end of the world – but you can see it from there.” Ha! Ha! If you don’t live in Alberta, you may not recognize the friendly rivalry between the province’s two largest cities. The honorable Mr. Klein was once the mayor of Calgary.
What you can almost see from Edmonton is the City of St. Albert, where I live. Founded by Oblate missionaries a century ago, many of its streets bear the names of its founding MetÃs families: Perron, Boudreau, Giroux. What was once a tiny farming village has long since morphed into a leafy suburb of the larger city next door. St. Albert has all the modest charms of a mainly middleclass bedroom community. Summer evenings have a familiar sound track: the drone of lawnmowers, the murmur of conversation and occasional outbursts of laughter of neighbours gathered on the corner, and the thud, thud, thud, crash of basketball in the street.
What you can almost see from St. Albert is the absurdly named Pinnacle Ridge housing development. Now I know that prairie people make topological distinctions that a native of the coastal mountains such as me would not, but honestly, if there is supposed to be a pinnacle there, I can’t see it. ‘Pimple Ridge’ might be more accurate, if less appealing to potential home buyers. I suppose the pointy clay cut banks that rim the outside meanders of the little river bordering the development could strike someone, a prairie someone, as pinnacle-esque. It’s a stretch.
Am I being too literal, trying to make a mole hill out of a mountain? Maybe the name was chosen to convey exclusivity, privilege - the spoils of success. The houses of Pinnacle Ridge are not so much homes as they are starter castles. Each muscular specimen stands apart from its neighbours, sufficient unto itself in its formidable bulk. And yet these outsized trophy houses are also huddled here, apart from the nearby community. Pinnacle Ridge is an enclave.
When, on summer evenings, I occasionally bring my golden retriever Ginny to walk the very nice trail that lies between the houses and the river or to stroll the broad curving avenues, we seldom see or encounter anyone save an occasional driver passing by. No one is out. There's a palpable absence of sound. The people are here, to be sure, somewhere within the walls of their great buildings, out of sight.
St. Albert isn’t the end of the world, but you can almost see it from here.
When we get home after our walk, someone will hail me from the corner with an amiable insult, sparking a round of chuckles from the handful of neighbours gathered there, drawing me into the conversation. Ginny will seize the opportunity to work the little crowd, soliciting affectionate strokes. The light may be fading, but the basketball game is still on. Thud, thud, thud, crash.
